“He would never keep you here against your will.”
“Where is he?”
“He went into town for something for your foot.”
“What would that be? A hacksaw?”
Dorothea rose and gathered up his dishes. “He means the best for you. You would do well to take his advice.”
“It’s not his foot. It’s not his choice.”
“That is certainly true.” Dorothea paused and sat down again, the tray on her lap. “You would risk your life rather than sacrifice two toes. Do you mistrust his skill so much?”
“His doctoring don’t have nothing to do with it. Don’t you know what they do to runaways they catch? They cut off their feet—and not just so they can’t run no more. It tells everyone he’s a runaway. He’s a slave.”
“It’s just two toes, not your whole foot. Two toes to purchase your life.”
“I’m not going to die because of two shriveled toes.”
His expression was resolute, and Dorothea knew further argument was futile. “Summon me if you need anything,” she said quietly, and left him to rest and memorize the quilt.
She helped her mother complete the day’s housework, then settled in the front room to sew while Lorena knitted. Robert passed through on his way to Uncle Jacob’s old room carrying his toolbox and an armload of boards of all sizes. All afternoon while Dorothea and Lorena worked and discussed measures they should take to improve their station—in hushed voices as if they expected to discover Mr. Liggett crouched outside beneath a window—the sounds of sawing and hammering came from Uncle Jacob’s room. Just when their curiosity could not bear another moment, Jonathan returned with a paper-wrapped bundle beneath his arm.
“What’s that?” asked Dorothea.
“Did Dr. Bremigan ask why you needed the medicine?” Lorena added.
“I didn’t go to see Dr. Bremigan.” Jonathan shrugged out of his coat. “I went to see Mr. Hathaway.”
The cobbler? Dorothea and her mother exchanged a look of bewilderment as Jonathan began to tear off the paper wrapping.
“If Zachariah’s going to travel on foot, he’ll need boots,” said Jonathan, holding them up so the women could see. “Before you ask, no, I didn’t tell Hathaway why I really needed them.”
“But they’re too small for you or your father,” said Lorena, drawing closer. They were good work boots, solid and warm. If only Zachariah had had them weeks ago. “Even if they did fit you, everyone knows you are not here often enough to need them. Mr. Hathaway is sure to wonder.”
Jonathan grinned. “He did wonder. I told them they were for Dorothea.”
Dorothea laughed. “You must not think much of my sense of fashion if you considered that a credible story. Don’t you think Mr. Hathaway will wonder when he does not see me clomping about the streets of Creek’s Crossing in these boots?”
“Now that you mention it, Mr. Hathaway did say he didn’t remember you having such large feet.”
Lorena said to Dorothea, “Between now and the time you buy a new pair of shoes, you will have to think of some reason to explain how your feet shrank.”
“That, or purchase my shoes in Grangerville.”
“I don’t believe that will be necessary. Mr. Hathaway was so glad to have the sale that he didn’t question my story.” Jonathan grinned at his sister, amused. “One other customer was more curious, though. He overheard our conversation and said that he didn’t recall ever seeing you wearing anything so coarse. I believe he said you had much too delicate a foot and too graceful a manner to wear such things.”
Immediately Dorothea thought of Cyrus. “What did you say in reply?”
“I said that obviously he had never seen you stomping outside to milk the cows in the winter before dawn, and that you have the most enormous, clumsy feet of any woman alive.”
“You didn’t,” protested Dorothea. “You could have simply agreed with him.”
“On the contrary. I’m your brother. Someone has to dispel your suitors’ illusions.”
“Jonathan,” scolded Lorena, feigning displeasure. “Cyrus Pearson has danced with Dorothea many times. He surely saw through your exaggeration.”
“He might have, except he wasn’t there,” said Jonathan. “The man was not Cyrus Pearson.”
“Not Cyrus?” asked Lorena.
“Who, then?” asked Dorothea.
“No one I had ever met. The cobbler called him Mr. Nelson.”
“You must be joking,” said Lorena. “You must mean Mr. Nelson the elder. He must be in town visiting his son.”
“This man did not seem more than a few years older than Dorothea.”
“Then you must have misunderstood his manner,” said Dorothea. “What you interpreted as flattery was certainly intended as sarcasm. Mr. Nelson has never had a kind word for me.”
Jonathan’s eyebrows shot up. “So I was speaking to Mr. Nelson, the schoolmaster?”
“I know of no other Nelsons in Creek’s Crossing.” Heat rose in Dorothea’s cheeks. Why had her brother felt it necessary to ridicule her in front of a man who would relish her humiliation all too well?
Jonathan frowned, dubious. “This man did not seem as unkind as you have described him. In fact, he rebuked me for speaking about you unfairly.”
Dumbfounded, Dorothea said, “He rebuked you?”
“Yes. He said he had seen you dance and that it was grossly inaccurate to describe you as clumsy.”
Lorena shook her head at Dorothea in wonder. “Who would have imagined a compliment from that man?”
“I am not so sure it was a compliment,” said Dorothea flatly. “Did Mr. Nelson mention he is a former convict? I am sure he is quite capable of lying convincingly.”
Taken aback, Jonathan said, “He made a far different impression upon me. He seemed a trifle stern, but he did not seem dishonest. Besides, is he not the son of—”
“His father has a wonderful reputation, of course,” interrupted Dorothea. “From what I have seen, his son deserves nothing of it. None of us even knows the crime for which he was imprisoned.”
“Considering that he is the head of the school, I hope it was nothing violent,” said Jonathan.
Dorothea agreed, but she did not have time to ponder the secrets of Mr. Nelson’s past, or why he had spoken so civilly about her to her brother. He was too deliberate a man to have made those remarks casually. Then she remembered: He had helped search for Uncle Jacob that fateful night. Perhaps, out of pity for her loss, he regretted his earlier rudeness.
Just then, her father peered out from Uncle Jacob’s old room. “It’s finished,” he said, and beckoned them inside. “If you cannot find it, I’ll consider it a job well done.”
Dorothea scanned the room, but it appeared unchanged from when her uncle had inhabited it. Jonathan knelt to look beneath the bed. “I suppose that’s the first place anyone would look,” he remarked as he rose, brushing dirt from his knees.
Dirt? Dorothea peered more carefully at the floor by her brother’s feet. She had swept the room just that morning. While her mother and brother searched elsewhere, she paced slowly through the room, studying the floor carefully.
“What’s that you’re doing?” asked her father.
Dorothea merely smiled and did not allow herself to be distracted. What at first glance appeared to be dirt was really sawdust. She found traces of it in several places, most likely where her father had worked with his tools. Occasionally she also spotted a larger sliver of wood. She paused where the debris seemed to be most concentrated: directly in front of her uncle’s wardrobe.
She pulled open the doors, peered inside, even shifted aside some faded work shirts. She was about to shut the door when her mother said, “Who returned those old shirts? I know I put them in the rag bag.”
Dorothea smiled over her shoulder at her father, who was doing his best to look innocent. She reached deeper into the wardrobe and her fingers brushed the wooden back sooner than she expected. Rapping upon the b
oards, she heard a faintly hollow report. She spun around to her father and announced, “Here. It’s here. You made a false back.”
She watched as her father’s face assumed its old uncertainty, and it occurred to her that she had not seen it since the night Uncle Jacob died.
“You found it so quickly,” he said. “You’re a clever girl, much cleverer than Liggett, but maybe I should build something else.”
“No,” said Dorothea quickly. “It is a fine hiding place. If you had swept the sawdust away, I would never have found it.”
“The wardrobe is so narrow, no one would think to look for a false back,” added Lorena.
“It’s more than a false back,” said Robert, and he showed them the hidden latch that allowed the false back to fold away, revealing a compartment inside just large enough for two men to stand shoulder to shoulder. On the floor was a handle, which Robert lifted to reveal a hole sawed through the floorboards. None of them could see anything below but empty darkness. Robert explained that the hole went straight through to the cellar, and that he intended to partition off a small, hidden room below by building shelves, one with hinges to act as a door. A space large enough for two or three people to sit comfortably would be undetectable to all but the most determined searcher. Now fugitives could hide inside the wardrobe if Mr. Liggett or anyone else searched the house, and could pass from Uncle Jacob’s bedroom to the cellar and outdoors, if necessary.
“Let us pray it never will be necessary,” said Lorena fervently. Silently, Dorothea agreed.
ZACHARIAH REMAINED WITH THE Grangers for two more days, until the wounds from Mr. Liggett’s dog had begun to heal. He left at twilight with a sack of bread and dried meat on his back and the new boots on his feet. The night was cold but clear, with a bright half moon providing enough light to find the landmarks by. He assured Dorothea he would remember the symbols in the quilt, but if they failed him, he would “follow the drinking gourd” and make his own way north.
At breakfast, Jonathan announced that he intended to leave the next day. Lorena was dismayed. “But the farm is yours now,” she said. “Don’t you wish to stay and take charge of it?”
“Mother, we all know that the farm is really yours and Father’s.”
“But you could stay on here.” She reached across the table and clasped his hand. “You’ve always liked Dr. Bremigan. You can continue your studies with him.”
His mouth curved in a rueful half smile. “If you considered him an adequate tutor, you wouldn’t have asked Dr. Bronson to take me on.”
“Now that we’re running a station, we could use your help more than ever,” said Robert. “Zachariah is not the only fugitive who will need a doctor’s care.”
Jonathan rubbed a hand over his jaw. “There is something I need to tell you.” He hesitated. “I have been admitted to Harvard Medical College. Dr. Bronson helped me secure a scholarship. I enrolled last week and will begin my studies there after I conclude our business here.”
“Harvard Medical College?” All the color drained from Lorena’s face. “But … that is so far away, and it will take so long. Years.”
Jonathan nodded. “And when those years are over, I will be a proper doctor, not merely some well-trained assistant.”
“But we need you now,” protested Lorena. “No one else can provide the help you can here.”
“There is so much I still need to learn,” said Jonathan. “Allow me to study at the college. Then I will return and do all you ask of me. I promise.”
Dorothea could see that he was resolved, that he would do as he wished regardless of his parents’ reply. She saw in her mother’s eyes that she knew it, too.
“I will hold you to that promise,” said Lorena softly. Then she nodded.
Robert drove Jonathan to the train station early the next morning. The house felt strange and empty with only herself and her mother in it, so Dorothea was glad for the brief walk out to the sugar camp to leave the quilt. She should have taken it earlier, but Zachariah had seemed to find comfort in it, and he had needed to memorize the symbols. Circling the shelter, she found unfamiliar boot tracks in the snow. Only Mr. Liggett could have left them, but there was no way to determine if he had done so on the night of Zachariah’s arrival or if he had returned more recently. Suddenly Dorothea felt a crawling sensation on the back of her neck as if she were being watched. She draped the quilt on the wooden bench inside the shelter and hurried back to the house.
Soon afterward, the jingling of sleigh bells called her from her housework to the window. She had not expected her father to return from the train station so soon. “Who is it?” called Lorena from the kitchen as Dorothea looked out upon the front road.
A single horse pulled a cutter and driver up the road. She had never seen the cutter, but she recognized the horse. “It’s Cyrus Pearson.”
“On a Saturday?” Lorena came to the window, but the horse and sleigh had already passed. She gave her daughter a quick, appraising glance. “Take off that apron. Your dress and hair are fine, but you have a smudge of dust on your nose.”
“If he comes unexpectedly, he should be prepared to see me as I truly am,” said Dorothea, but she rubbed her nose with the back of her hand and smoothed the skirt of her dress. Thus she was somewhat presentable when she answered Cyrus’s knock. He declined her invitation to enter and instead invited her to go riding. Lorena gave her permission, so Dorothea put on her wraps and took Cyrus’s hand as he helped her into the cutter. They bundled up beneath the heavy blankets, Cyrus chirruped to the horse, and they rode smoothly off.
“Please accept my condolences on the loss of your uncle,” Cyrus began.
“Thank you.”
“I would have been by sooner, but I did not want to intrude on a family matter.”
“That’s quite all right,” said Dorothea, thinking of all the neighbors who had not considered their kindness an intrusion. She was suddenly troubled by his long absence. Something in his manner seemed distant, chilly.
“Oh, by the way, how is your friend?”
“My friend?”
“The ill friend you were caring for when I last called for you.”
“Oh. She is fine. She made a full recovery.” Dorothea silently scolded herself for forgetting the ruse. “I was gone only for the day.”
“Then I should have returned sooner.” He grinned at her, his good humor apparently restored. “You will forgive me, but I thought you were out driving with some other fellow and had left your poor mother to invent a story to protect you.”
“Do you really think I would have done such a thing?” said Dorothea stiffly.
“Of course not. You are goodness itself.” Then, with a sudden edge to his voice, he added, “If you tell me you were nursing a sick friend, I will believe you.”
“I assure you, I was not out riding with anyone.”
He nodded, satisfied. Dorothea buried her chin into the blankets, emotions roiling. Her friend Mary thought a man’s jealousy spoke well of his feelings for a woman, but Dorothea felt unsettled and displeased by Cyrus’s concern. She was relieved that he seemed to accept her half-truths, but resentful that he had required them.
“My mother sent me with a message about your library business,” said Cyrus.
“You could have delivered it in the warmth of our kitchen.”
“And deny myself the pleasure of your sole company? I wouldn’t dream of it, especially since it seems that our regular Thursday drives will no longer be necessary.”
“What do you mean?”
“My mother has decided to cancel the library board meetings now that the event you have been planning for is so quickly approaching. She says everyone’s efforts will be better spent preparing for the quilting bee.” He glanced away from the horse to grin at her. “You, especially, are expected to spend all your waking hours completing the quilt top. Neglect every other duty if you must, just as long as you bring the finished quilt top to the quilting bee.”
“Yo
ur mother said this?”
“Not in so many words, but her intention was clear.”
Uncertain, Dorothea said, “Doesn’t your mother want to see the quilt top ahead of time? I have already sewn the rows together as I thought best, but I expected her to want to examine my work.”
“She would like to, but there isn’t enough time. She says she has faith in your ability to complete the task as instructed.”
Dorothea suppressed a sigh. She had designed the quilt and would not concede that Mrs. Engle or anyone else on the library board had instructed her. Still, while this arrangement would ensure that the banned authors were included in the quilt, she had intended for Mrs. Engle to learn of it well before the quilting bee.
She ought to tell Cyrus what she had done and ask him to inform his mother. She almost did, but then she thought of Mrs. Engle’s patronizing manner and Cyrus’s annoying jealousy, and said instead, “You’re certain your mother wishes for me to finish the quilt top according to my best judgment?”
“I’m sure that would satisfy her.”
“Very well.” Dorothea could not hide a smile. “I will do so.”
Cyrus peered at her quizzically, then shrugged. “I have never understood this fascination with making bedcoverings.” He tugged on the reins to turn the horse in a wide circle until the cutter was heading for Dorothea’s home. “For purely selfish reasons, however, I regret that this particular quilt is nearly done. I will miss our Thursday drives.”
“I have enjoyed them, too. It is pleasant to have an outing to look forward to during the week.”
“I hope that means you enjoy the company.”
Dorothea decided to exclude that day’s drive from her assessment. “I have, indeed.”
“Then perhaps we might continue our drives even if they have no practical purpose.”
She had to laugh. “My uncle would have said that is too much of an indulgence, but I think my parents would allow it.”
“Then I will call for you next Sunday as long as the weather is fair.” He paused. “I understand your brother is in town.”
“He was. He left only this morning.”
Elm Creek Quilts [07] The Sugar Camp Quilt Page 20
